


You Are Not Your Own

by EdenJames



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 14:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12866319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdenJames/pseuds/EdenJames
Summary: "It was only the most baffling cases that came to our door - Sherlock Holmes taught me that nothing is what it seems. But when it came to the case concerning the theft of Sherlock's sanity, my father would learn that sometimes thing were exactly what they seem and that his friend could, in fact, get things very, very wrong..." [A story told from Rosie's future POV.]





	You Are Not Your Own

If there was one thing I ever understood about Sherlock Holmes, is that he was a sceptic; sceptical of society, of people, sceptical of belief, sceptical of the truth. This knowledge alone convinced me that the man of "cold, hard reason" would never be irrational when it came to ghost stories, which is why, when my father, John Watson, offered to go and report on a chain of suicides, I was surprised to find the sleuth dropping two prominent cases to travel with him.

It was a mild but damp October's day when Sherlock's friend and superior, D.I. Lestrade, came to visit. I use the word "superior" in a loose sense. Within the chain of command of London's Metropolitan Police Force, Greg Lestrade, could, and occasionally would, run circles of authority around his consultant, but when it came to the work… the D.I. needed all the help Sherlock could provide. It was only the most baffling cases that came to our door - The impossible thing done by impossible means. The impossible things, however, when pitted against the critical mind of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, nearly always turned out to be despairingly simple. Nothing is ever as it seems. But when it came to the case concerning the theft of Sherlock's sanity, my father would learn that sometimes things were exactly as they seemed and that his Detective friend could, in fact, get things very, very wrong...

. . .

' _No_.'

Lestrade rested in the hollow of the living room door, ragged looking, as if weighed down by his knee-length grey coat. 'Please, Sherlock, I'm at my wits end; they're all going crazy down there.' He stepped further into the room, drooping down onto the sofa arm.

Sherlock, laid out across the couch, poked at Lestrade's thigh with his big toe. 'No. Get off.'

Lestrade grabbed a pillow from the seat, pitching it at the detective's face. Sherlock put his arms up, knocking it away to the floor. He glowered at the Inspector, lowering them down into his lap again. 'I'm still not helping you.'

Greg had come to Sherlock on several occasions in the past eight weeks over the same out-of-town case. Co-ordinal villages in Sussex, down on the South-East coastal way; a series of suicides. The first one was treated as a tragic psychologic break down. The second: A death forged on inspiration from the preceding. When, however, there was a third suicide manifesting the same "possessed" behaviour as the previous, an inquest was filed.

'Obvious; it's a suicide pact,' Sherlock had said in Lestrade's first consultation. 'Everyone aiding and abetting each other to mortality whilst trying to attract police attention. It's a cry for help, Lestrade. Perceptively even a protest against the unfathomably unsympathetic waiting-time to receive mental-health assistance through the NHS nowadays. Pick up the station's psychologist and off you pop.'

Greg had come back two-weeks later. 'It's not a suicide pact,' he'd said resolutely. 'The victims had no connections with each other. No family, no work colleges, no friends, no travel-times, no shared pub, nothing. Not one of them had even sent a message to another online.'

'Then it's another Henry Knight scenario,' Sherlock had deemed, not even looking up from his studies over the kitchen table. 'Drug making them suggestable to any inference. Go and find their murderer as you're so sure their "victims".'

Sherlock had gotten aggravated when Greg had returned a mere five days later.  _'What do you mean there was no drug in their systems?!'_

'There wasn't any, Sherlock. What do you want me to say?'

'It has to have been! It's the only possible explanation of all of the facts.'

'No,' huffed Lestrade. 'It's a possible explanation of  _some_  of the facts.'

Sherlock was surprised at having his own words thrown back in his face. 'It was probably an enzymatic degenerative toxin then, broken down into natural compound by the victims' bodies. Now, leave; I don't want anything more to do with this infernal case, Lestrade.'

It was now Greg this time getting heated. He growled irritably, getting to his feet and pacing the wear in the carpet. Sherlock rolled his eyes, propping himself upright. 'You've left every other time I've said  _no_  so what's changed?'

Greg now slumped down in John's armchair. He had the palms of his hand pressed to his eyes. Sherlock sat silently, taking in the Inspector's countenance.

 _Grease around his hairline._ Unwashed for several days.  _Five o'clock shadow at ten in the morning._ Either too busy to shave or hasn't been home yet.  _Fingers tremoring slightly._ Back on the nicotine again.  _Shoes: Mud overlapping the sides of the soles._ He's been out of the city, somewhere where it's rained more substantially.

Sherlock pulled his satin, blue dressing down around him, tying the ribbon around his waist. He stood, walking slowly across the room. He knelt at the D.I.'s feet. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' he hummed.

Greg nodded soundlessly. Sherlock got up, traversing to the kitchen.

When he returned, Greg had settled back into the armchair, head reclined towards the ceiling. Sherlock placed his steaming mug on the table before retreating to his own chair, sitting with his legs folded beneath him. He knew better than to rush the Inspector for an explanation so he sat quietly, listening to the Doppler hum of traffic on the road outside the vailed windows

'He was a kid, Sherlock,' the D.I had said eventually, voice thick from fatigue and reticence. 'Been in the Force for only two-and-a-half years.'

'They've got a police officer?' said Sherlock.

Lestrade nodded. 'Twenty-Two; the same age as I found you.'

'That was a long time ago,' Sherlock muttered.

'Very long time,' the Inspector exhaled. Greg lowered his chin to look at the detective. 'Are you alright?'

'Fine,' Sherlock said, his thoughts sifting back to the present as he took a sip of his tea.

'When did you last see, John?'

A blithe smile crossed Sherlock's. 'Am I really such an open book?'

'No. I just know you better.'

'Four weeks.'

A frown flickered across the D.I. 'Do you want to sleep round mine for a couple nights?'

Sherlock thought but shook his head. 'No… No, I'm alright.'

Back when he was young, curling up on Greg's sofa with tea and the telly on was a comfort, but he knew the temporary reprieve from solitude now would be followed by a slippery slope.

Greg tried not to let the thought of Sherlock living out his days here alone penetrate too deep into his thoughts.

'So,' he said, placing scaffolding around his tone. 'This case-'

'I can't,' said Sherlock quietly.

The D.I. tried not to let his disappointment display in his countenance, but in masking that he let his concern slip into view, but, of course, Sherlock had noticed.

'Don't look at me like that,' he said. 'I hate it when you look at me like that.'

Greg sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's just I really need your help and I'm concerned that you haven't come out with me on a case once since…well, since this whole business with your sister. I'm scared to think you haven't left this place once.'

'I'm working on two of your cases now...' Sherlock watched as Greg's knuckles whitened as his fingers tightened around his ceramic.

'I know, Sherlock, and I'm grateful, but a good man died, someone close to home, a kid, and something's not right about it.'

Sherlock shifted in his seat, bringing his knees up in front of him. 'Is there the possibility that the horror of this case just became too much for him?'

Greg watched closely as Sherlock said this. Behind his eyes was an indescrible look of despair, but his face remained as stoic as ever as he looked across at the empty hearth.

'Is there any chance,' the Detective went on, 'that this case was the first time the boy had seen a dead body? Did anyone ask him how he felt about it? What thoughts were going through his head?'

The Inspector could think of no reply.

'I'm sorry,' said Sherlock turning his eyes to the ground. 'I can't take the case.'

'What case?'

Both Sherlock and Greg found themselves turning around to the sound of a third voice from the hallway landing. John walked into the living room, his satchel sung over his shoulder, Rosie in her pink duffle coat enveloped in his arms. Sherlock stood up: 'John.'

Greg watched as his Consultant's melancholy melted into the background, a soft smile lifting to his lips. He wandered forward, placing gentle finger tips between Rosie's reduced shoulder blades. 'Hello sweetie.'

Rosie looked at him with curious eyes. She turned to her dad as if for explanation, which, he duly provided.

'It's Sherlock,' said John to her. 'Sherlock.'

Rosie twisted back to him a with a wide, happy expression. Sherlock grinned with a little laugh. 'Hello again.'

John smiled weakly at the pair before looking to Greg. 'What case?' he said once again.

'Linked suicide in Sussex.'

'Linked suicides…?' he mirrored.

'Like the day we met,' came Sherlock's baritone hum.

Sherlock looked to John but the Doctor didn't acknowledge he'd said anything.

'But not poison, like The Study in Pink,' Greg explained.

'No?'

'No, we don't know what's going on at the moment, which is why we really need Sherlock.'

John lost the last of Greg's sentence, distracted by Rosie grabbing at the fingers Sherlock had held out to her.

John tugged at her arm gently. 'No, Rosie, don't do that.'

'It's okay,' Sherlock interjected, 'She's not hurting me.'

Rosie removed her arms from her father's neck with a cry, twisting forward towards Sherlock. She babbled grappling for the detective.

'May I?' said Sherlock looking to John.

'Might as well. She clearly wants you more the me right now.'

Sherlock took Rosie into him, and whilst she fussed for a few seconds she settled quite harmoniously into his breathing pattern, rubbing her face into his chest. Sherlock chuckled, wrapping his arms around her. 'What are you doing, hmm? What you doing?'

Greg smiled at them both before turning his attention back on John. 'So, how've you been?'

John took a seat in Sherlock's chair. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm… good. You?'

'Yeah. Just… snowed under.'

'Yeah, you were saying, this case, what's going on?'

'We don't know, that's why I need Sherlock's involvement but he repeatedly tells me no.'

John turns towards Sherlock, as normal looking at him but never seeing him. 'Not like you, Sherlock – turning down a case?'

'I just don't feel like travelling at the moment,' said Sherlock, swaying with distant expression from side to side with Rosie. 'You know how it is.'

'What do you think the case about, then?'

Greg leaned forward in his chair, placing his tea mug down on the floor. 'A host of suicides. None of them apparently connected but everyone that's died has been described as possessed in the minutes before they kill themselves.'

'Possessed?'

'Yeah, you know, like in the horror films. Walking around in like a sort of trance, even the young lad in the force that died last night.'

'In the force? You mean a police officer?'

'Yeah, that's why I desperately need some sort of advance in the case. Rational officers are suddenly committing suicide… who knows who could be next.

John looked to Sherlock who, at the same time, angled himself a way from the conversation, holding Rosie closer into his chest, pressing his nose into her wisps of soft hair. The Doctor turned away again, irritation rising in his chest. 'I'll go.'

Sherlock's head jolted up. 'What?'

'I'll go. If you don't want to travel, I'll go. Get all the facts for you. Then you can just sit here and work it out.'

'Really?' Greg looked to Sherlock. 'What do you think, Sherlock? Be like old times. That way you can help out.'

Sherlock strolled apprehensively to the desk, picking at the corner of a stack of paper with his spare hand.

John glanced between the two detectives in the silence. 'Sherlock?'

Sherlock picked up the stack walking with it across the room before dropping on a different table. 'Probably not the best idea.'

It was Greg this time to look at John; a cautionary look; a concerned look. 'I think it would be alright, Sherlock. It's not like John hasn't done it before.'

'I'm not doubting John's capability.' He stood beside Greg until he got up out of the Doctor's armchair. He bent down, sitting Rosie in his place. 'It's just probably not a good idea given he's got work and a child to take care of.' He walked across to John's satchel, which had since been deposited on the floor. 'Besides it's not safe. We don't know the facts.' He retrieved a teddy bear from inside.

'I've got a week off,' refuted John. 'I sent you a text about it a couple of weeks ago.'

'Did you? I didn't notice.' Sherlock crossed the room again, handing the toy to his God-Daughter.

John pushed a breath out through his nose, turning back to Greg. 'I'll go. It will be good to do something a little-less mundane. Besides, I could do with the fresh air.'

'Didn't you hear me?' said Sherlock gritting his teeth. 'I said, it's not safe.'

'Since when has anything we've done been safe. Since when have you  _cared_  about safe?'

'Since you had a daughter and nearly drowned down a well.'

'Well whose faults that?'

Sherlock got up abruptly, directing himself towards the kitchen. 'Who's for tea? I'm having tea.'

John sighed, slouching back in his chair as the DI and himself we left alone. 'This is mad.'

'I know, you two really need to sort this out between you,' said Greg, picking up his mug from the floor.

'No,' gritted John, 'I mean it's mad I come and see him. Nothing good ever comes of it; I don't know why I still go to the effort.'

'Don't say that, John. You two used to be best mates.'

'Yeah, well, a lot's happened since then.'

'For him too.'

John didn't have time to retort. Sherlock had swept back in the room, fists balled at his sides. 'Fine, I'll go.'

Greg turned to look at him, with a refreshed sense of energy: ' _You will?'_

Sherlock pulled his dressing gown around him once more. 'Yes. But this isn't me giving in or being sentimental.'

'Oh, back, ready to be the hero, is he?' sneered John.

'I'm not being heroic,' gritted Sherlock. 'I'm being logical.'

'Logical? What, with ghosts? How can you be logical about something that isn't there? They aren't real, Sherlock. No-one is being possessed. There's nothing to be logical about.'

'Look, we don't know what's going on right now. An officer's been killed and there's every chance it could be with malicious intent. To go down there alone is foolish. Worse than foolish, it's stupid. Until we know truth, we shouldn't be sending people to wander alone.'

'You mean you just don't want to be alone,' muttered John, once slouching back in his seat.'

Sherlock sighed. 'Look, are you coming or not?'

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> First story. Hope you enjoyed it. You made it this far so, thank you. If you hadn't already picked up, this is set a few months after Series 4 the end pf series four, before the 'oh look everything's good now' montage. Obviously this is just a set up to the main story so isn't that exciting but the story will go on to be a thriller-type tale.
> 
> If you'd like to leave a review, good or bad, it would be much appreciated.
> 
> Best Wishes till the next time.


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